


kick the monsters back under the bed

by philthestone



Series: nursery 'verse [8]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: New Republic Era - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, I need to take a deep breath and stop writing daddy han fics this is getting ridiculous, and a little bit of flangst, carbonite does things to your general mental health, like giving you really bad sleep paralysis, mentions of ptsd I guess?, there's a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's 'cause there's two of you in the bed," Nik tells his father sleepily, head pillowed in the crook of Han's neck. "That's why you and Mommy sleep together. Bad dreams get scared when there's more'n one person in one place, Daddy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	kick the monsters back under the bed

**Author's Note:**

> Someone stop me I can't stop writing Han as a Dad and this is getting out of ... _Han_ d
> 
> I'm not even sorry for that one ANYWAY I do headcanon that Han has pretty awful sleep paralysis issues post-rotj because of, you know, six months stuck in a semi-conscious state of frozen oblivion and I'm like NINETY percent sure that he was really damn lucky that that didn't do any lasting damage to his mental health. In conclusion, fluff emerged.
> 
> Reviews are ... me writing MomLeia fic too. I promise I'm not ignoring you Leia, it's just that your loser husband is SO MUCH EASIER TO WRITE. [lays down in an emotional fashion]

His first instinct is to breathe, harsh and ragged and gasping, and ease his painfully tight grip on the bedsheets under him.

His second instinct, following swiftly after the first, is to reach out blindly to the other side of the bed, desperate for her reassuring warmth. His fingers scrabble against cold sheets as he rolls over, his heart still hammering frantically in his chest, and he remembers that she won’t be back until late in the afternoon, that she’s been gone for the past two days but she’s safe and fine and it’s just a simple diplomatic mission and the world isn’t ending tomorrow and no, he’s not alone and helpless, _she is coming back._

His third instinct is to swear. Loudly.

Or, perhaps not as loudly as he might have once done. It’s more of a groan, slipping out as he lets the tension in his neck ease and drops his face into the pillow, hunching his shoulders and willing his stiff frame to _relax_ , and –

(Justadreamjustadreamjustadreamjustakriffingdream _itwasn’treal)_

He’s almost forty-four, damn it all, and he’s not frozen up like that in his sleep in what feels like _years_ – not since before the kids, since some semblance of certainty and _constancy_ entered his life and took root there – and it’s stupid, stupid stupid stupid, to let those old demons sneak up and swallow him like he’s not ready to take them straight on and kick them back to hell where they belong.

Besides; if he swore any louder than he did, the kids might’ve woken up.

He exhales and rolls back onto his back, reaching up to push the sweaty hair back from his forehead. Sleep paralysis is terrifying even without the suffocating memory of six months frozen in a semi-conscious state of oblivion, and its abrupt reinvasion of the few hours of peaceful sleep he _does_ get (the inability of two six year olds and a four year old to understand the term “lazy mornings” slowly becoming another one of those new constants in his life) is decidedly not appreciated.

Even in those early days where it was new and unexpected and absolutely kriffing _terrifying_ , (a remnant of months stuck in hibernation that really should have wreaked much more havoc on his mental health than they did), Leia was usually there to catch the brittle tension in his back and shoulders, the way his elbows locked at his sides in the middle of the night, unanticipated and sudden.

_Damn_ it.

Han swears again, low and under his breath; the likelihood of falling back asleep again is very, very slim. He doesn’t bother checking the chrono, stubborn and irritable, turning over again and punching his pillow. The thick, humid air of Coruscant is congested with pollution and hanging low over the planet and clogging the lower levels terribly ( _and it’s really sayin’ something_ , he thinks, _if it’s so damn hot and muggy up here and this air kriffin’_ sinks _it’s so heavy –)_

It catches in his throat as he tries to inhale, tries to regulate his breathing. The sheets are damp and clinging to the bare skin of his torso and he tries focusing on the slivers of light flickering against the opposing wall through the window and hates the fact that his limbs feel achy and strained and that he’s still reeling from the feeling of being _trapped_. 

( _Stupid stupid stupid_ , plays through his head, and _just close your eyes again_ , damn it –) 

“Daddy?” 

Han stiffens against the pillow, fingers clenching at the sheet under him reflexively as he bites down on his lip to control his still-erratic breathing. Inhaling deeply and giving himself a mental kick, he eases over onto his side to face the tiny figure silhouetted in the doorway. 

“Hey, kiddo.” 

Four years old and barefoot, with a worn threaded blanket bundled around him, Anakin takes a small step into the room. 

“My bed’s cold.” 

Sleeping in the Big Bed with Dad when Mom’s away hasn’t _quite_ become a ritual, exactly – but more often than not, every time Leia’s away, _someone_ will end up snuggled under the covers with him at night. He’s not sure if it’s because her distance from them in the Force triggers more bad dreams than might usually appear, or if his own niggling anxiety can be felt and prompts them into action, or if they just like taking advantage of their mother’s absence to get a chance to sleep in the big, springy bed in their parents’ bedroom – but it’s happened often enough by now that Han doesn’t even bat an eyelid. 

He exhales and smiles tiredly against his pillow, lifting an arm to hold the rumpled sheets open. “C’mere.” 

Within moments, Nik’s small feet have pattered across the carpeted floor and he’s clambering over the edge of Mom and Dad’s Big Bed, his movements bordering on frantic; as though he’s escaping something that’s chasing him, something lurking in the big, dark, empty space behind the doorway. As expected, the crown of Nik’s head immediately burrows its way into the crook of Han’s neck, his cold, tiny feet pressing into his father’s abdomen. 

Shifting so that his arm doesn’t get trapped under Nik’s back, Han pulls him closer and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Bad dream?” The words are whispered into the mop of hair. It's lighter than either of his siblings’, wavy and soft. 

Nik is quiet for a moment, shoulders trembling slightly, and then nods. The movement is small and jerky, hidden in Han’s neck, and Han lets his hand drop to the nape of Nik’s hair, lets its warmth press against the thin fabric of the pajama collar. If he stretches his fingers, thumb pressed against the base of Nik’s skull, Han’s hand can reach all the way down between his son’s shoulder blades. 

(It’s almost disconcerting at times, how he can fit the whole back of Nik’s head in his palm; how he’s still so small, so _fragile_ – the same way the twins used to be, barely a year ago, and they’re still _so small_ , compared to everything else in the world, the size of his own limbs magnified relative to theirs. Han wonders if there’ll always be things about the three of them that overawe him like this – that leave him with his chest feeling inflated and his heart light and overlarge allatonce.) 

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “I’ve gotcha.” 

“The bed was all cold,” Nik repeats, scrunching his eyes shut and pressing his hands against the warmth of his father’s chest. “And alone.” 

Han sighs. The decision to move Nik to a bed of his own – albeit only across the room – on account of the twins’ growing limbs and the dwindling amount of space on their shared bed had been met by vehement protestation on the part of all parties involved. Nik hadn’t complained since the first night, which was rather unexpected. 

That was, Han admits to himself, only four days before. 

But still. 

“It’s okay,” Han says again. A beat, and he focuses on the feeling of his fingers running through the soft hair. “You know, Dad was having a bad dream too.” 

Nik shuffles so that he’s resting on his back and opens his eyes to look up at Han. His cheeks shine wet in the halflight of the bedroom; Han is close enough to see the tears still clinging to his thick lashes. 

“Cause Mommy’s not here?” 

"Something like that,” says Han softly, stroking Nik’s head again. Nik nods seriously, big blue eyes reflecting the flashes of oncoming traffic that peak through the blinds covering the large, transparisteel windows on the other side of the room. 

“When she’s here,” Nik tells him, “the bad dreams get scared and go away.” 

Han snorts involuntarily, feeling a grin tug at his mouth, and thinks of the way Leia can make a being twice her size cower with nothing more than a tilt of her head. He gives Nik a nudge with his chin. 

“Is Mommy really that scary?” 

The tears apparently forgotten, Nik giggles, his foot poking Han’s stomach. “ _No,_ Daddy. I mean ‘cause there’s two of you.” 

Han raises an eyebrow. “Two of us, huh?” 

“Uh huh,” says Nik. His voice is turning sleepy, the adrenaline of the nightmare ebbing away in tandem with the soothing rhythm of Han’s hand against his forehead. He stretches his legs out and snuggles his head back under Han’s chin. “Like with Jasa and Jaya. There’s two of ‘em so the bad dreams get scared an’ –” A yawn, small and muffled – “an’ hide.” 

“So usually me and Mom scare them away too?” 

“’S why you sleep in the same bed.” 

Han hides his grin in the crown of Nik’s head. “But since Mommy’s away …” 

“The bad dreams tried’a sneak up on you,” says Nik matter of factly. 

“Pretty lousy of them, huh?” 

“They’re the _lousiest_ ,” agrees Nik, his voice muffled by Han’s neck. “And ’m all ‘lone in my new bed, Daddy, so they tried to get me, too.” 

“Well,” says Han (realizing that his heartbeat has gone back to normal, that the tension in his shoulders has dissipated completely, and he resists the urge to hold Nik more tightly against his chest). He can feel the little puffs of breath coming from Nik’s mouth against his skin. “You think now there’s two of us they’ll get scared off?” 

“Yeah,” mumbles Nik, already half-asleep, the initial stiffness of his small shoulders eased away by the solid warmth of Han’s embrace. “Scaredy pants.” 

Han feels his fingers curl protectively around the back of Anakin’s head and relaxes his hold on him, carefully easing his own head back against the pillows. The flutter of Nik’s steady, slowed breathing whispers warm against his neck. Of the three of their admittedly _slightly_ wayward offspring, Nik’s always been the easiest sleeper, and evidently the knowledge that nightmares won’t revisit with two people in the bed has put his mind at ease about letting himself fall asleep again. 

Or something like that. Han still isn’t sure he’s ever going to understand four year old psychology, with or without the presence of three bright and energetic children. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, his own heart rate steady and slow. 

Nik’s fingers curl against his chest and he exhales, feels his eyelids grow heavy. 

(Two people in the bed, it seems, really _does_ do the trick.) 


End file.
